writer

If the romance of your art makes you restless
And breaks every possible dream of money and wealth
That any human would want,
If you are lucky enough to be chosen amongst the millions of billions
And if the path is dimly lit in its sensual aroma,
If the love of this art surpasses the love of a women
And even if it takes ages you are ready to sacrifice,
If your heart is a pious image
Within which words flicker like paper,
If your dreams are as vivid and bright
And bold as facts of someone’s life,
If the senses lure you to live
And if the path takes you to a place-
Somewhere near peace and excitement
Near life and death, near love and hatred,
If this journey that shall be too long and tearing,
Makes you feel the spirit of it,
And if the dreams you dream race your pace,
And have the guts to live,
Your world is full, you life is this,
This art you worship,
Be blessed for she only shall consume you wholly.

so you want to be a writer?

by Charles Bukowski
if it doesn’t come bursting out of you in spite of everything,
don’t do it.
unless it comes unasked out of your heart and your mind and your mouth and your gut,
don’t do it. if
you have to sit for hours staring at your computer screen or hunched over your typewriter searching for words,
don’t do it.
if you’re doing it for money or fame,
don’t do it.
if you’re doing it because you want women in your bed,
don’t do it.
if you have to sit there and rewrite it again and again,
don’t do it.
if it’s hard work just thinking about doing it,
don’t do it.
if you’re trying to write like somebody else,
forget about it.
if you have to wait for it to roar out of you,
then wait patiently.
if it never does roar out of you,
do something else.
if you first have to read it to your wife or your girlfriend or your boyfriend or your parents or to anybody at all,
you’re not ready.
don’t be like so many writers,
don’t be like so many thousands of people who call themselves writers,
don’t be dull and boring and pretentious,
don’t be consumed with self- love. the libraries of the world have yawned themselves to sleep over your kind.
don’t add to that.
don’t do it.
unless it comes out of your soul like a rocket,
unless being still would drive you to madness or suicide or murder,
don’t do it.
unless the sun inside you is burning your gut,
don’t do it.
when it is truly time,
and if you have been chosen,
it will do it by itself and it will keep on doing it until you die or it dies in you.
there is no other way.
and there never was.